


A Daybreak Soft As Falling Snow

by Thilien



Series: 31 Days of Ineffables Ficlets [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Prompt Fic, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), but mostly soft because I cannot get enough of giving these two a happy ending, snowy morning, with just a dash of smut thrown in at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:15:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21646630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thilien/pseuds/Thilien
Summary: Prompt fill for day two of Drawlight's 31 Days of Ineffables. Prompt: Snow."When Crowley pulls back the curtain, he finds the world has changed overnight. In the distance, the gentle slopes of the downs are covered in brilliant, blinding whiteness. The bare-branched trees that line the lane leading to the cottage are now laden, branches bending under the weight of the snowfall, glistening as the first of the sun’s rays hits them. Lazy flakes drift downwards, like feathers falling to earth."It is a snowy morning in a South Downs cottage and a demon is making breakfast for his angel.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: 31 Days of Ineffables Ficlets [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559806
Comments: 6
Kudos: 110





	A Daybreak Soft As Falling Snow

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [love like the dawn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21553543) by [leaveanote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaveanote/pseuds/leaveanote). 



> With thanks to the wonderful Drawlight for coming up with the prompt list. I'm having a great deal of fun writing these although I must have been over-indulging on the advent calendar chocolate because I seem to be writing pure sugar! 
> 
> This little ficlet also owes some inspiration to the amazing 'love like the dawn' by leaveanote - a wonderfully soft fic about sleepy, romantic, domestic morning sex in the South Downs cottage that I would urge you all to go and read just as soon as you've finished this. It made my heart ache in all of the best ways. 
> 
> Needless to say, I don't own any of this - just borrowing and playing with it for a while. All the good stuff belongs to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchell and to the marvellously talented people who bought the book to life so wonderfully for us all.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are VERY much appreciated. Thank you for reading and enjoy! x

**A Daybreak Soft As Falling Snow**

When Crowley pulls back the curtain, he finds the world has changed overnight.

In the distance, the gentle slopes of the downs are covered in brilliant, blinding whiteness. The bare-branched trees that line the lane leading to the cottage are now laden, branches bending under the weight of the snowfall, glistening as the first of the sun’s rays hits them. Lazy flakes drift downwards, like feathers falling to earth. 

Last night, curled up under a blanket on their sofa ( _Their sofa. Theirs. He is still not sure if he can believe such a thing exists_ ), Aziraphale’s fingers lazily winding through his hair, they’d talked of going for a walk to the coast today. But plans can change. They no longer live in a world where they have to have plans. 

The garden of their cottage now lies under a blanket of perfect white and Crowley is, once again, thankful for Aziraphale’s help in laying fleece over his more delicate plants and the vegetable beds before this cold spell hit. Not that any of the plants in their garden would dare to shrivel away over even the coldest of winters. Not if they know what’s good for them. Crowley’s sharp edges might have softened considerably since they moved here but he’s not lost all his venom just yet. And he knows Aziraphale enjoys coddling the plants once Crowley is done growling at them ( _“Don’t you listen to him. He loves you all really, spots and all…”)_

The rising whistle from the ridiculously old-fashioned kettle that Aziraphale insisted on buying ( _“But darling it’s traditional.” “Go on then. If you really like it, angel”_ ) brings Crowley’s attention back inside. Turning off the gas, he pours out the boiling water. A pot of tea for Aziraphale, a cafetiere of coffee for himself, two slices of hot buttered toast - miraculously still warm despite the wait for the kettle. The angel is always hungry when he wakes up although, much to Crowley’s delight, it isn’t always for food.

He carries the tray up to to the bedroom. The cottage isn’t a large one, bigger downstairs than up. But there is enough room for Aziraphale’s many books and for Crowley’s record collection. A small kitchen where Aziraphale has been learning to bake, calling to Crowley through the window to come and try whatever he’s whisked up this time ( _“I thought I’d try scones today dearest. Here, try one, tell me what you think.”_ ). And there is a garden on all sides and a view of the downs and a village within walking distance with a friendly pub that does decent food for when they don’t fancy cooking and even better wine for when they’re done with food. 

Placing the tray down on the sideboard, Crowley settles gently on the edge of the bed. Leaning over, he brushes a wayward curl from Aziraphale’s face, planting a gentle kiss on the angel’s forehead as he does so. Bright blue eyes, soft with sleep, meet Crowley’s own.

“Morning angel”

Aziraphale lifts an arm, lifting the duvet and shuffling over just enough so that Crowley can slide under it and nestle himself in the angel’s arms. 

“Good morning,” the angel murmurs, breath soft against Crowley’s hair. The angel’s hands have wandered beneath Crowley’s t-shirt, soft fingers stroking a line down his back. Crowley arches into the touch, tilting his head up so that Aziraphale can kiss his throat with the softest of close-mouthed kisses. The angel’s hands tangle in his hair, grown longer since they moved here, and Crowley lets out a low hum of pleasure before forcing himself to focus and remember what brought him up here in the first place. Ignoring the angel’s sleepy protests, he untangles himself.

“I made breakfast,” he says, nodding over to the tray, with its curls of steam coming from warm drinks and hot food, “thought I’d bring it up.” 

Aziraphale smiles at him. Oh, that smile. The one that can light up every corner of Crowley’s being and chase even the darkest of shadows from his mind. Crowley doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of seeing it. 

“Oh darling you really are so good to me. But I rather think I’m in the mood for something more... _substantial_...this morning.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow, grinning at the look of coy innocence on Aziraphale’s face even while the angel’s hands drift down into the small of his back, pulling them so close together that Crowley can feel the unmistakable sign of Aziraphale’s plans for the morning against his thigh. Crowley lets himself be pulled downwards, all thoughts of breakfast forgotten. 

They will return to it later (it will, of course, be miraculously still warm), when all shades of sleep have been chased from both of them, when they are kiss-drunk and sated, and able to unwind their tangled limbs and reach for something that isn’t each other. 

And when they do finally draw back the curtain, curled up against each other in a world that is no longer ending, with tea and coffee and all the comforts of home surrounding them, they will see that the snow is still falling. Like feathers falling to earth. 


End file.
